


Check On You

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Home and Away [4]
Category: Stargate SG-1, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7053073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Multiverse, clone!Jack, Who takes care of him when he's sick?"</p><p>The answer: Sam and Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check On You

Jonathan knew he’d never been the best patient, not when he was married to a nurse and not when he had the best medical care the USAF could provide, but when he was his own patient? That was the worst. He’d never been a sickly kid, that much he remembered, but when something did hit, it hit pretty damn hard. He wasn’t old enough to buy the good drugs, and he was definitely in no fit state to take himself off to the local clinic (and getting his own health insurance when he turned eighteen was going to be a bitch, because his Air Force coverage would run out). So he called in sick to the garage, huddled in bed with orange juice, water, and half a dozen boxes of tissues, turned on some low symphonic music, and tried to sleep.  
  
He came awake too slowly, the front door was open, people were already inside by the time he had a hand on his gun.  
  
When his vision cleared, he saw Samuel and Dean standing just inside the door, Samuel with wide eyes, Dean looking wary.  
  
Jonathan lowered the gun, de-cocked it, set it aside.  
  
“Dad said you sounded like shi - uh, crap when you called in,” Dean said. “So we came to check on you.”  
  
Samuel rolled his eyes. “I’m not a baby, you know.” He was just gone thirteen. “You can swear in front of me. Dad and the other mechanics do it all the time.” He had his arms full with a brown grocery sack.  
  
Jonathan blinked. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”  
  
“Doofus,” Samuel said, “school’s out for the summer, remember?”  
  
Jonathan flopped back against the pillows with a sigh. “Right. Dean finally stopped skipping classes like a roaring delinquent. That you’re back in the shop full time must mean school is out.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that fancy Academy of yours wants good students. Can’t be a good student if I’m not there,” Dean said, with no small measure of sarcasm.  
  
Sam looked up at Dean with wide eyes. “You really want to be an Air Force Officer?”  
  
Dean looked at Jonathan, then said, “Yeah. I really do. I think I could help a lot of people.”  
  
“I wanna be a lawyer,” Samuel said. “Lawyers help people.” He plunked the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and began sorting out cans of soup, a bag of rice, a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, more orange juice and tissue boxes, cough syrup - the good kind - and cough drops.  
  
Dean began pawing through Jonathan’s cupboards with startling competency.  
  
“This chat about everyone’s future is nice and all,” Jonathan said, “but if you don’t want to catch my disease, you should probably, you know, leave.” He sniffled and reached for another tissue, blew his nose, crumpled it up and added it to the pile on the night stand.  
  
“We’re pretty tough,” Samuel said. He was finally losing some of his baby fat, and Jonathan knew the kid was a quick study with a firearm and the Marine Fu that John Eric insisted his boys learn, but no one who looked at Samuel, with his floppy dark hair and bright eyes, would think to call him ‘tough’. “We don’t get sick easy.”  
  
Dean put a pan on the stove and emptied a couple of cans of soup into it. Samuel measure a cup of rice and two cups of water into another pot and set it on the stove beside the pan of soup. Then he rooted around in the fridge for some mayo.  
  
Jonathan watched them, a little dazed and confused and impressed by their kitchen competence. He knew their mother, Mary, had died when Samuel was just a baby, and even hinting at it made John Eric and Dean throw a wobbly, so Jonathan never did.  
  
“What are you doing?” he finally asked.  
  
“Making tomato rice soup,” Dean said. “It’s what you need when you’re sick.”  
  
Jonathan blinked. “Um, I thought that was chicken noodle soup.”  
  
“Nope. Tomato rice soup,” Samuel said. “And grilled cheese sandwiches.”   
  
Dean poked through Jonathan’s spice rack and whistled, impressed. “You secretly Betty Crocker?”  
  
“In your dreams,” Jonathan said, but he was a damn good cook compared to most boys his ‘age’, it was true.

Dean selected several jars, spiced the soup like he’d done it a thousand times before, without hesitation, and stirred it a few times. Samuel elbowed him aside after a few moments, saying, “I got this. Go. Do your thing.”  
  
Dean said, “Are you sure?”  
  
“I’m not a baby.”  
  
Dean raised his hands in surrender. “Fine! Fine.” He flashed Jonathan one of his grins, the nice kind, not the flirty kind. “I’m gonna go work on your bike for a while, all right? Samantha here has everything under control.”  
  
Samuel scowled.  
  
Jonathan said, “I know a woman named Samantha, and she’d kick your ass to hell and back!”  
  
Dean laughed and ducked out the door.  
  
“Ignore him,” Samuel said. “I am perfectly capable of tending to the sick. The soup needs to simmer a bit, and then I’ll add the rice, and right when the soup is almost done, I’ll grill the sandwiches. In the meantime, you need some cough medicine.”  
  
Samuel poked in the silverware drawer for a large spoon, then came into the bedroom - it had a great view of the kitchen, which Jonathan appreciated, for strategic defense purposes - and sat down on the edge of the bed. Samuel unscrewed the cap of the bottle, carefully decanted some of the syrup onto the spoon, and held it out.  
  
“Open up,” he said.  
  
Jonathan was surprised by the utter seriousness with which Samuel made the request. There was nothing condescending or sympathetic in it. Apparently this was how things were done in the Winchester household, with no Mary to supervise. So Jonathan obediently took his dose of cough syrup, then drank the glass of water Samuel gave him.  
  
“Now lie back and rest,” Samuel said. The words had an almost rote sound to them, but Samuel’s tone was gentle. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly and bustled into the other room, returned with the waste paper basket lined with an old plastic shopping bag, and scooped the pyramid of used tissues into it. Then he set the basket beside the bed in easy reach for Jonathan.  
  
Jonathan went to lie back, but Samuel intervened, piling the pillows behind him so he could sit up a bit, and then he tucked the blankets around Jonathan for good measure. Jonathan was careful to hold still when Samuel reached out and checked his temperature, his little hand cool, his lips pursed in a frown when he felt how hot Jonathan was.  
  
“Stay here,” Samuel said. “I need to go check on the soup.”  
  
“Okay,” Jonathan said. He closed his eyes and dozed, woke fully again when Samuel appeared with a tray laden with soup, sandwiches, and orange juice.  
  
Thankfully Samuel didn’t try to feed him, so they ate together in silence. When the meal was done, Jonathan thanked Samuel, offered to do the dishes, but Samuel insisted he could do it and scampered into the kitchen. He returned ten minutes later, and then he sat beside Jonathan on the bed.  
  
“Now, do you want a story, or a song?” Samuel reached into his backpack. He was reading _Harry Potter_.   
  
“What songs have you got?”  
  
“Hey Jude,” Samuel said promptly.  
  
“How’s your singing?”  
  
“Better than Dean’s.”  
  
That wasn’t actually saying a lot, but Jonathan couldn’t remember the last time someone had sung to him, could barely remember the old Irish ballads his mother had sung, her voice twisting on the air like a violin.  
  
“A song would be nice,” Jonathan said.  
  
Samuel cleared his throat, straightened up, and began to sing, and Jonathan fell back to sleep, safe and warm.


End file.
